It happened two weeks before Christmas. Up until then, Gerard and I were in an awkward phase where we were absolutely miserable without each other, but refused to get back together. During a drunken phonecall initiated by him at 3am, he told me that I was utterly unlovable, and that I was a selfish prick. I told him he was too fucked up and broken for anyone to ever want. He came to school with cuts on his arms the next day, and I hated myself.
At the same time, though, he'd sometimes walk past me and look like he was checking my work, while his hand lingered softly on my back, or on my wrist, or he'd wink at me and chew his lip as he talked. Those days were my favourite.
The general consensus, though, was that we were broken up. It was a truth that made my heart sink constantly, feeling heavy and useless in my chest. Even Cameron, with his warm smiles and tentative kisses couldn't chase away the darkness that seemed to settle on my skin. I was too stubborn, though, to just tell Gerard that I missed him and needed him more than I needed air in my damn lungs.
From the ashes of Gerard and I, though, rose a new comradeship between Cameron and I. He was so forgiving and understanding, his hands rubbing my back as I sobbed into his shoulder, almost screaming about how much Gerard had hurt me, and continuing to do so every damn time I broke down in front of him. He'd just hold me, rocking me gently as I called Gerard every name under the sun, sometimes chuckling and agreeing with me. When I was done, he'd kiss me softly and remind me that he thought I was incredible, and I just sat there, hoping his compliments could wash away the grungy sadness that buried itself under my fingernails. They never could, though.
What even Cameron couldn't save me from was the nighttime. I still had Gerard's number on a separate phone, which I kept charged and with me at all times, just for comfort, and for occasionally torturing myself with old messages. I'd stare at it for hours, flitting between desperately wanting it to ring, and almost calling him myself. The only thing that stopped me a lot of the time was that he was probably drunk, and I didn't want a repeat of last time.
Sleeping was almost impossible. His face seemed to be tattooed on the insides of my eyelids, and he appeared in every single dream. Sometimes they were pleasant, with us kissing and laughing, and sometimes they involved him bleeding out in front of me. Either way, I woke up sobbing and clutching my chest. Sometimes I'd call Cameron, and he'd talk me down until I fell asleep. He really was the most attentive, loving person I could have ever asked for, and I genuinely wished things could be different for us.
It was a Saturday when it happened, and I was with Cameron in his room. He sat on top of me, his legs straddling mine, while I sat up, leaning against the wall. Our shirts had been long ago discarded and thrown on the floor, but we still wore our jeans, and I had my hands on his hips, thrusting softly up, so his ass rubbed sinfully over my aching cock. He leaned in and kissed me, moaning as he did.
"Jesus, Frank." He panted, burying his face in the crook of my neck. I smiled and kissed him softly, my hands reaching for his hair. I was always disappointed when I grasped soft, sandy blonde hair instead of the coarse red hair I desired, but I didn't complain.
I was reaching down to unzip his jeans when my phone vibrated from my pocket. I thought it was weird, because my phone was on the bedside table, and I froze. It was that phone. Cameron shifted back slightly so I could answer it, looking as nervous as I felt.
"Hello?" I asked softly.
"Where are you?" he snapped. His voice sounded weak and shaky, and I automatically fell back into that familiar 'protect' mode.
"Cameron's place. What's u-"
"Text me the address. I'm coming to get you." He said urgently.
"Gerard, what's happening?" I asked. He paused.
